Sheer Fantasy

A big yellow bird—the Big Bird—stands in the middle of a crowded cathedral, and sings a requiem. He stands stoically and bids farewell to Jim Henson, the legendary creator of the Muppets, in what can only be described as the most absurd and touching of acts: by singing “It’s Not Easy Bein’ Green,” originally performed by Henson himself as Kermit the Frog. The worlds of whimsical innocence and profound sadness collapse into one another with every word that passes through Big Bird’s beak. There is perhaps no topic more serious or confronting than death, and there is perhaps no individual better equipped to deal with its harsh reality than this mass of friendly feathers. It’s heartbreaking. It’s ridiculous. It’s absolute perfection.

I’m standing in the middle of Campbelltown Arts Centre in Sydney, with wet eyes and an exhibition catalogue in my hand. Around me, the exhibition, “Sheer Fantasy,” continues where the short video of Big Bird left off, presenting a series of precious moments where the real and surreal converge. An eclectic spread of artists is on show here, yet they are all united by a singular impulse: the willingness to dream. Indeed, the mere act of stepping into the exhibition conscripts the gallery-goer into this shared willingness, as one passes under a vibrantly colored archway at the entrance and enters into the land of “what if.” This installation, Architectural Interventions (2018) by 1000 BCE, does not attempt to create an illusion that deceives us—one only has to look back to see exposed wood and armature on the other side of the arch to recognize its artifice—rather, it functions to enable us. The real threshold that we have crossed is psychological; the architecture serves as a reminder of this crossing.

I enter the room on my left, and find myself staring at a large table filled with alien memorabilia from The UFO & Paranormal Research Society of Australia. The eclectic mix of materials is almost self-defeating in its excess: we find everything from newspaper investigations to Martian bumper stickers, to pixelated photos of the sky, to alien themed lollies, to lava lamps, to figurines of an extraterrestrial five-piece band. The collection could easily belong to a child, indiscriminately hoarding anything that resembles some vague approximation of their interest. But while it may be easy to dismiss the contents of the table, in a way, this mix of science and fantasy is the most honest representation of how we collectively conceive of aliens—creatures whose existence forever walks the interminable line between the factual and fictive. If we accept that, then, in scorning the display, we are really scorning ourselves.